He didn’t turn around. But there was a faint, almost imperceptible softening at the corner of his mouth. A private thing. He only ever let it show when he was sure no one else was looking.

The orphanage loomed behind him, red brick and soot-streaked windows, and the wind carried the distant clang of a bell. Tom Riddle stood very still, waiting—like he was testing whether she’d follow him back inside, or vanish like everything else he’d ever trusted.